Misplaced Hate
by fitzybeag
Summary: "I'm a teacher it doesn't matter what colour I am." "It's all about colour, Mr Shue." After the murder of a Hispanic youth in the area, Mr Shue struggles to teach Santana and Sam about tolerance. Inspired by the Trayvon Martin case. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

"_A convenience store owner in the Lima Heights area has been charged with murder in the fatal shooting of a 15-year-old boy on Tuesday after a quarrel over a can of Cola._

_The 37-year-old proprietor, Darren Lee, is Caucasian and the boy, Tito Rodriguez, was Puerto Rican. The shooting has strained relations between Hispanics and whites in the area._

_Mr Lee told the police that he had thought the boy was trying to steal the can of Cola. But Comdr. Lucas Shortt of the Lima Police Department said a videotape from a security camera showed that the boy had money in his hand and was not stealing._

_Commander Shortt said the tape showed that the teenager had given up after a brief struggle, had left the Cola on the counter and was apparently leaving when he was shot..."_

Santana switched off her old TV set and sat down with her back against the floor, tears streaming down her face. From her ninth floor apartment she could only hear the faint roar of the people on the ground below, the people crying out for justice. Her friends and neighbours had spent the last three days throwing up their picket signs and raising their voices to the sky.

To the rest of the town, Tito was nothing but another dead body on the pavement. They didn't care he was her friend.

oooo

"Alright, guys – you've had all week to prepare one song that reflects something that makes you angry. Who's up?"

The students exchanged bored glances. The aim of the theme was to relight some of the passion the club once contained, but no one was really too bothered.

Rather unexpectedly, Sam's hand shot up in the air. "Mr Shue, I'd like to go first, if you wouldn't mind."

Mr Shue raised his eyebrows, impressed. Sam rarely volunteered to sing solos, and it was a nice change. "Take the floor, Sam."

Sam threw his guitar around his neck and took a deep breath. "Well, as a lot of you know, the last year or so have been hell for my family. That's why I'd like to talk about a certain topic that, personally, makes my blood boil."

He cleared his throat.

"_Illegals, those inoculated peoples, Illegals,_

_I called up the congress, to see what we could do,_

_They said for Spanish press 1, for English press 2_

_If they wanna live free without paying a tax,_

_We outta ship em over seas and bring our boys back._

_We're overpopulated with undocumented people,_

_They work hard, bless their hearts, but they're still Illegals._

_Illegals, those univited peoples, Illegals."_

No one got a chance to hear the rest of the song, before Santana tackled him to the ground, one hand pinning him down by the throat.

"SANTANA!" Mr Shue roared, racing forward to pull the fired up Latina off Sam's helpless body. It was no use. Santana had entered her zone, and there was no going back.

"_Sinvergüenza_!" she cried, grabbing at clumps of blond hair, "_Blanquito __estúpido_!"

By the time Finn and Puck had managed to pry her off Sam, she was trembling slightly, with tears of anger threatening to spill at the corners of her eyes.

"You don't know the first thing about illegals, you hear me?" she yelled at no one in particular. The room could do nothing but sit back stunned as Santana shrugged off her restrainers and stormed out of the room.

Mr Shue ran a hand through his hair. "Damnit, Sam! Is there nothing else you could have sung about? She's Puerto Rican for Christ's sake!"

Sam ducked his head, but his eyes were still glowing. "Of course she'd get fired up. Those spics are all the same."

The whole Glee club seemed to flinch.

"Sam," Mr Shue said in a lowered tone, "That's a highly offensive racial slur, and this club has a zero tolerance for discrimination of any kind."

"Whatever." Sam grabbed his bag over one shoulder and filed out into the corridor, leaving the choir room in perfect silence.

"Mr Shue, you don't know what's going on, do you?" Finn sighed, taking his seat once more.

Mr Shue shook his head, blankly.

"A Latino kid was shot dead last Tuesday," Finn continued.

"That's right. I heard it on WOHN."

"Well, over in Lima Heights, things have gotten pretty rough. Whites are getting jumped by Hispanics and vice versa. The place is in riots."

Mr Shue sunk down into his seat, his heart slowly sinking into the floor. "So, I'm guessing anger theme wasn't the best idea."


	2. Chapter 2

Sam lay on his narrow single bed, facing up at the ceiling. All he could do was listen to the wall clock tick back and forth out in the kitchen. If he strained his ears, he could just about make out the protests and chants coming from the Latino side of Lima Heights.

Sam shut his eyes tight.

He was late for school but he was beyond caring. There was nothing there that really engaged him anymore. Glee club used to be an outlet for his pent up emotions, but since he'd been branded a racist, and his continued arguments with Santana, he didn't really feel the love there anymore.

By the time he'd won the mental battle to crawl out of bed, his dad's head poked in around the door.

"You getting up, kiddo?"

"Yep. Eventually. You got any work today?"

Mr Evans sighed and sat down on the edge of Sam's bed. "Not today, unfortunately." He paused and took a listen to the protests. "It's a travesty that people are trying to defend this kid. He was an illegal, like the rest of them over in that pig pen."

"That's what I try and tell them, Dad."

"Good boy," Mr Evans smiled, ruffling his son's hair, "Now head off to school."

Sam threw on some crumpled clothes and without another word, began his trek across Lima, making a point of avoiding the Hispanic side of the Heights.

oooo

"Hey, wanna ride?"

Santana spun around to the snazzy Cadillac that was tailing her as she slowly made her way to school. She recognized most of the people inside the vehicle from her neighborhood, particularly the well built guy leaning out of the passenger window. Most people would have run a mile if they ran into a thug like Alvaro, but Santana had grown up with him. They were like family.

"I'm alright, hijo. I've school."

"I've got business to take care of in that direction anyway. Hop in."

Santana didn't have to guess what he meant by business. Alvaro was what the Latin community referred to as a _bichote_ – the neighborhood drug kingpin. He ruled the blocks, and as he so often told her; _'Quien a buen árbol se arrima, buena sombra lo cobija.'_ – taking shelter under a good tree gets you good shade. In other words, having the right friends in the right places reaps its benefits, protection being a major one.

She threw her eyes to heaven and climbed into the backseat, squished up against large, sinister looking gangsters from the area.

Alvaro was in deep conversation with the vehicle's driver, talking too low for Santana to make out his exact words.

She decided she'd be better off not knowing what they were up to, and sunk back in her seat, staring out at the passing shop fronts and pedestrians. She could smell the faint scent of petrol somewhere, and before she could even question it, a Zippo was flicked open in the front seat, and she could only watch as Alvaro hurled a lit petrol bomb through the window of Lee's Convenience Store. They sped off down the road, the passengers in the Cadillac yelping and cheering in delight.

"That's for Tito!" grinned Alvaro, raising a fist.

Santana cracked a smile and raised her own fist. "For Tito."


	3. Chapter 3

Glee club followed the same formula that it had over the last week. Santana would come out with some sort of snide comment, which would set Sam off, or vice versa. The others had stopped keeping scores, and were getting frustrated with their antics.

Today was no different.

"Alright now, are any of you available over the weekend to rehearse our big number for Sectionals? We've really fallen behind, you guys," announced Mr Shue.

"Actually, it's my dad's birthday on Saturday. My mom's making a special dinner," said Sam.

Santana sniggered under her breath, looking down at her feet. "I thought the only thing white women can make for dinner are reservations."

Sam shrugged off her comment and continued staring into the space in front of him.

Mr Shue eyed the two of them wearily and turned back to the board. "Anyway, we were discussing the amount of songs today that steal ideas from old classic songs. Any examples?"

"Well, I'd say Santana knows all about stealing."

Before Santana could even begin to come back with a witty response, Rachel was on her feet. "That's it! I'm sick of you two bickering like kids! Alright, I get it, a kid has died, but that's no reason to be at each others throats!"

Sam jumped up, his chair making a grating sound as it skid backwards. "You don't know shit, Rachel! This has been going on long before that kid died. The Latinos think they can just hop into this country and treat it as their own! Taking all the dirt-cheap jobs, bringing drugs over the border – all they do is abuse it!"

"Enough!" Rachel yelled, standing up on her chair for added height. "You know what? You two remind me of a gang that used to run over in Europe. These guys, they were tough, you know? They would make you look like amateurs. They started off young, and poor and angry, until they found someone to blame for everything! They decided their life would be so much easier without the people who made their life hard. So they got rid of them. And that's how a Holocaust started!"

The choir room sat in perfect, eerie silence.

"Well we were here first!" murmured Sam, fist clenched.

"So that makes you better than us? Jesus, what is it with you white people demanding all this respect you don't even deserve?" Santana exclaimed. "All of you!"

Mr Shue noticed her glare waver over him for a moment. "Hey! I'm a teacher, it doesn't matter what colour I am."

Santana eyes opened wildly as she leaned forward in her chair. "It's all about colour, Mr Shue. It's about whites demanding what isn't theirs, thinking they run this place! That's why my first instinct when I look a white person is hate!"

Mr Shue had to swallow hard to prevent from choking on his words. "So, you hate me? You barely know me."

"I know what you can do. I heard the gunshot as that white store owner shot my friend in the back of the head because of what he looked like! I saw white cops beat my brother to a pulp for no reason except they feel like it! And they can, because they're white!"

Heavy tears were streaming down Santana's face, and she roughly wiped them away.

Mr Shue lowered his head in silence, and remained this why until the bell tolled and the club wearily trudged out the choir room door.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey, Sam, wait up!"

Sam spun around to find Finn sauntering out of the school gates towards him.

"What's up, Finn?"  
Finn placed a heavy hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Nothing has to be up, man. I just want to toss the ball around. Like we used to do."

The blond sighed deeply. "Yeah, alright. I'll give you half an hour."

Finn laughed heartily as he ran ahead, "Jesus, Sam – we're not setting up a business meeting!"

Sam had to smile as he set off after his taller friend.

oOoOo

Santana finished rearranging her locker for the fourth time that afternoon. The home time bell had tolled over an hour ago, but she was so full of rage that she had to put her energy into something before she ripped someone's head off.

"What are you still doing here?" came a quiet voice behind her. She spun around, half afraid someone had spotted her with nothing better to do than hang around school.

It was Mercedes, with a small smile and a slightly ducked head.

"Oh. Hey, 'Cedes."

"Hey. Wanna sit?"

Santana looked around, confused. "On the corridor floor?"

Mercedes just shrugged, as if to say, _where else?_

Slightly cautiously, Santana proceeded to slide down to the floor after her friend, her back against the lockers.

It was silent for a few moments. "Did you mean what you said in there? About hating all white people on sight?"

The Latina swallowed hard, looking down into her lap. "A little." She glanced up at Mercedes' expression. It was surprisingly nonjudgmental.

"I mean," Santana continued, more confident now, "That's how I've been raised, you know? Sure, I like lots of white people, but, on first glance – not so much."

Mercedes nodded, and took Santana's delicate hand in hers. "I know it's hard for you. Brittany told me that your family –"

Santana shot up to her feet, brushing down her lap flusteredly. "Brittany shouldn't have told you that."

Mercedes caught her by the arm before she could storm off. "Look. You've got to open up to us, Santana. Make us see what you've seen, make us feel what you've felt."

"No one in that room could relate to a goddamn thing I tell them about my life."

Mercedes cocked an eyebrow. "Then don't tell them – sing it. It's what you do best."

oOoOo

Sam lay back on the worn grass, panting a little and looking up at the pinkish clouds that were slowly making their way across the setting sky.

"Nice game, man," he grinned at Finn, shooting him a playful punch.

The sat in silence for a little while longer, content with their peaceful surrounding.

"How's your family?" Finn asked after a while.

The blond shrugged, his eyes not straying from the blade of grass he had twisted in his hands. "Alright. My dad's finding it hard to get work, but, that's the way it is."

"I don't judge you for being upset about the whole working issue, Sam," Finn said softly, "You just can't let it determine your character. You're a nice guy. Don't let what your dad thinks take over who you are."

"It's not just what my dad thinks," Sam protested, "It's the way it is. Employers will gladly choose illegal immigrants over American workers because they know they'll work for dirt cheap."

"Either way, all this hate just isn't you. That's why the club and I have decided to dedicate the next week to understanding one another better. Everyone is gonna sing their own stance on your and Santana's feud."

Sam blew out heavily in thought, and then pushed himself up to his feet. "Whatever."

With that, he made his way across the field and into the glow of the sunset towards Lima Heights.

Finn sighed and tossed the football between his hands. This was going to be even harder than he'd imagined.


	5. Chapter 5

Will took a deep breath before making his proposition. He knew from experience that one wrong word could lead to a mutiny with these kids.

"Alright, Sam, Santana – you know that this session has been called today to give you each a chance to make amends. You owe to each other and the rest of your fellow members."

Sam and Santana shuffled awkwardly in their seats, not making eye contact.

Neither of them budged.

Will clapped his hands together. "I'll get the ball rolling, shall I? Sam, I want you to stand up here, tell us about your point of view and sing one song that explores this theme. Got it?"

Sam pushed himself up curtly, and stepped forward before the club. "Alright, guys. I know some of you have got the wrong impression of me over the last few days, but I'm not the kind of guy who swallows his words. I meant what I said. But this song isn't about that hate. This song is about my own personal struggle. _Dead End Street_, by the Kinks." He nodded towards the band, and the music started up.

"_There's a crack up in the ceiling,  
And the kitchen sink is leaking.  
Out of work and got no money,  
A Sunday joint of bread and honey._

What are we living for?  
Two-roomed apartment on the second floor.  
No money coming in,  
The rent collector's knocking, trying to get in.

We are strictly second class,  
We don't understand,  
Why we should be on Dead End Street.  
People are living on Dead End Street.  
Gonna die on Dead End Street.

Dead end street  
Dead end street

On a cold and frosty morning,  
Wipe my eyes and stop me yawning.  
And my feet are nearly frozen,  
Boil the tea and put some toast on.

What are we living for?  
Two-roomed apartment on the second floor.  
No chance to emigrate,  
I'm deep in debt and now it's much too late.

_We both want to work so hard,  
We can't get the chance,  
People live on dead end street.  
People are dying on dead end street.  
Gonna die on dead end street._

Dead end street  
Dead end street

People live on Dead End Street.  
People are dying on Dead End Street.  
Gonna die on Dead End Street.

Dead end street  
Dead end street  
Dead end street  
Head to my feet  
Dead end street  
Dead end street  
Dead end street  
How's it feel?  
How's it feel?  
Dead end street  
Dead end street."

Will nodded appreciatively and the Sam was met with kind applause and cheering.

"Nicely done, Sam. You ready now, Santana?"

Santana was stood up a little shakily, lacking her usual attitude and sass. She made her way to the front room, and took a deep breath. "I don't know if many of you know this, but I didn't always live in Ohio." She shifted her weight from foot to foot, until Will pulled forward a chair for her, which she gladly accepted. "I was born in Puerto Rico, in the slums of San Juan. When I was first born, we had little or no money, so my dad crossed the river into the States, to get a job and send back some cash. It took a month for the first cheque to come, and it wasn't much, but it was a start. After a year he wrote us a letter, telling us it was time to follow him over. My mom's brother was a _coyote_, so he had connections in the smuggling business. I was five or six, but I can still remember it like it was yesterday. We spent hours curled up in the back of a truck, people piled in at all angles. The heat was painful. Everyone was pressed face to face, and this unhealthy looking dude was just leaning on top of me the whole trip. It wasn't until we got out that I realized he had died from heat stroke." Santana stared down at her feet. "I can't deal with tight spaces, even today. Anyway, we arrived in America, and met up with my dad. And it was worth it. It was worth risking our lives and giving all the money we had – even though we knew we'd never be equal here – because we had a proper life, a proper future. That's what I want to sing about. _Kingdom Come,_ by the Civil Wars."

The music cued.

"_Run, run, run away  
Buy yourself another day  
A cold wind's whispering secrets in your ear  
So low only you can hear  
Run, run, run and hide  
Somewhere no one else can find  
Tall trees bend and lean pointing where to go  
Where you will still be all alone  
Don't you fret, my dear  
It'll all be over soon  
I'll be waiting here for you  
Run fast as you can  
No one has to understand  
Fly high across the sky from here to kingdom come  
Fall back down to where you're from  
Don't you fret, my dear  
It'll all be over soon  
I'll be waiting here for you  
For you, for you  
Don't you fret, my dear  
It'll all be over soon  
I'll be waiting here  
Don't you fret, my dear  
It'll be over soon  
I'll be waiting here for you  
For you, For you_

Run, Run, Run Away  
Run, Run, Run Away"

Santana returned to her seat, and Will allowed the club to chat amongst themselves until the bell went.

Sam and Santana, however, stayed facing straight ahead, eyes to the floor and stony faced.

Will's work wasn't finished yet.


End file.
